Twelve Words
by NoShipSherlock
Summary: When Sherlock becomes ill at the lab, Molly assists the sick detective. This is just a short comfort/friendship sickfic. Comments welcome.


Twelve Words

Chapter 1

Sherlock was in the pathology lab at St. Bart's Hospital examining the effects of glycerin on red blood cells, but his vision kept blurring and doubling as the cells swam in and out of focus under the microscope. He was starting to feel as if he were seasick. _Annoying._ He leaned back, closed his eyes, and started rubbing the bridge of his nose waiting for the feeling of vertigo to pass.

"Alright there, Sherlock?" Molly Hooper asked.

He jumped at her voice, startled by her sudden appearance. "What? Yes, fine. Just taking a break." _How had he not heard her come in? Maybe this dizziness was not just due to staring into the microscope for hours. Was he getting sick? How tedious._

"I was just wondering…erm…would you like any tea? I was going to make myself a cup. I can make one for you as well if you like. Or I have coffee," Molly said, hovering.

"Nothing for me, thanks. I just need to finish up here," he said, peering into the 'scope once more.

"If you don't want caffeine, I have herbal tea…" she trailed off when Sherlock pulled a face at the mention of herbal tea. "Okay then, maybe some other time. Umm…are you sure you're alright?"

"Are you aware you're repeating yourself, Miss Hooper?"

"Am I? Well…it's just…I mean…you, um…you look a bit flushed."

"Ah. Well, it is a bit warm in here, isn't it?" he said though a quick mental scan of his internal temperature seemed to indicate it, not the temperature of the room, was a bit higher than normal. _Definitely not good. He_ hated _being sick._

"Is it? You're warm? I think it's chilly. We keep the thermostat set low in the mortuary, you know, what with all the corpses and body parts."

"Right. Wouldn't want warm corpses. Rather bad for business I should think." Sherlock replied absently, still rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Oh, God, this is why it's so exhausting making conversation with ordinary people," he said, rolling his eyes. "You always take things the wrong way or find meanings that aren't there. I wasn't poking fun. I was simply making idle conversation." _Now he was getting a headache as well. He was definitely coming down with something._

"Well, if you're just about finished here, this ordinary person would like to leave. I need to lock up for the night," Molly said in a huff.

"Oh, so now I've offended you. Well, by all means, lock up. I can finish my work tomorrow. Save these for me," he said brusquely, inclining his head toward the slides. It was a command, not a request. As he eased off the stool, a sudden wave of dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, keenly aware that Molly was watching him.

"Oh, you're not okay, are you?" she asked, anger dissolving into concern. She stepped closer hand raised in a matronly gesture as if to feel his forehead, but wavered and dropped her arm to her side. She narrowed her eyes, "You haven't gone and poisoned yourself again, have you?"

"What? No! Look, that happened one time and I was _not_ poisoned, I simply miscalculated the dose of the drug I was studying and…"

"And John ended up tending you for nearly two days until the effects of your 'experiment' wore off. So then what's going on?"

He took another deep breath and turned toward her keeping a hand on the counter behind him for support. He didn't want to admit he was sick, and he wasn't used to needing help, but the room spun when he opened his eyes and he didn't think he could remain standing upright much longer. He slid down into a sitting position on the floor and said with some hesitation, "I think I'm ill. Fever. Headache. Dizziness. Nausea."

"Oh, Sherlock. It sounds like you're coming down with the flu."

"I wouldn't be surprised. I really need to stop riding the tube. Those carriages are…are cesspools of germs, incubating all…all sorts of…" he halted, swallowing as his nausea intensified, "…of nasty viruses and…mmmnh…I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered putting the back of his hand to his mouth.

"Do you think you can make it to the loo or do you need a basin?" Molly asked looking worried.

He mentally calculated the distance to the toilet and the number of steps he'd need to take, and quickly realised he'd never make it. "Basin," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Hang on. Be just a moment," Molly said. He kept his eyes closed trying to focus on the sounds around him rather than on his churning stomach. He heard her footsteps move across the room, the slight scuff of metal on tile, a rustle of plastic. Then she was beside him again holding out a wastepaper can lined with a bag, "Here, you can be sick in this."

He took the waste bin from her and asked in a strained voice, "Could you give me a moment?"

"Oh! Sorry, of course! I'll be just outside the door."

No sooner had Molly stepped away than Sherlock's control over his unsettled stomach failed and he began retching into the bin. The effort left him sweaty and shaken as the last waves of queasiness passed. Putting the bin on the floor next to him, he leaned back against the cabinet, utterly spent. Looking for a distraction until he had better control of his transport, he let his eyes roam over the volumes of books on the shelves in front of him.

He was reading some of the titles when he heard a soft knock. Molly tentatively poked her head through the doorway, "Sherlock? Okay if I come back in?"

He cleared his throat and said, "Yes. I'm…finished."

Molly came in and crouched next to Sherlock handing him a bottle of water.

He took the bottle and rinsed his mouth out a few times then took a few small sips.

"Feeling better?" she asked, taking a seat next to him on the linoleum.

"A bit. Listen, I'm sorry if what I said earlier hurt your feelings. I…"

"It's fine," she interrupted. "I overreacted. It's not important."

"You're missing volume two of Carl Rokitansky's series _A Manual of Pathological Anatomy_ ," he said, nodding toward the book shelf by way of changing the subject. He took another small sip of water.

"I know. I bought the set used. Volume two was missing and I haven't been able to find a copy. I've scoured many bookstores searching for it. I'm sure one will turn up one of these days. But, enough about my books, let's get rid of that bin and get you home to bed."

"Where…" he began but had to clear his throat again. "Where do you want me to dump this?" The thought of having to clean up his mess caused his stomach to roll unpleasantly, but he couldn't let Molly do it.  
"Oh, don't worry. I'll take care of it. We just need to get you home."

"Molly, I can't let you clean up my sick. Shall I take it to the toilet?"

"Really, it's fine. I don't mind," she said as she stood dusting off her trousers. "I deal with all sorts of awful fluids from dead people all day long," seeing the look on his face, she hurriedly continued, "Sorry; I guess that's a bit gruesome, isn't it? Cleaning up sick is no worse than anything I see on a normal day. I'll take care of it. Come on, I'll walk you downstairs to make sure you can get a cab." She extended a hand to help him up.

Sherlock got to his feet rather slowly. He was more or less vertical but still felt a bit unsteady and had to lean on the counter again for support.

"You alright?"

He nodded. "Just thinking I'm probably in for a miserable couple of days."

"Is…um…is John or Mrs. Hudson home?" she asked, "You know, just in case you need something," she added quickly.

He sighed and said in an irritated voice, "Despite what people may tell you, I am a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Oh, of course you are! I didn't mean anything…." She sighed, "I guess we're both saying things we don't mean. It's just that…well, isn't it nicer if there's someone to look after you when you're not feeling well?"

He softened realising she was only concerned. "John should be home. I've no doubt he will employ his full set of doctoring skills and I'll be nagged to death if I don't comply with his recommendations. If not, I will go straight to bed. I'm sure I can manage to survive a few hours on my own."

Molly smiled. "I'm sure you're right. Well, let's get you into your coat and downstairs," she said as she retrieved Sherlock's Belstaff from the rack near the door.

"Really, I'm fine. You've been quite helpful," he said, waving her away.

She turned abruptly, marched across the room and stopped directly in front of him addressing him in her sternest voice, "Sherlock Holmes! What kind of person would I be if I turned a sick man out into the night without making sure he had a way home? You can argue all you like, but I am coming downstairs with you and seeing you into a cab! Now, put this on," she said thrusting his trench coat into his hand.

"Well, Miss Hooper. I don't suppose I can refuse your help when you put it like that," he said, shrugging his arms into the sleeves. A faint smile touched his lips despite how awful he felt. Molly could be quite fierce when the situation called for it.

She looked away, blushing. Her voice was soft now, barely audible. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

Moments later Sherlock found himself outside St. Bart's, shivering from fever and the cold night air. He pulled his coat tighter around himself. A strange thought occurred to him as he leaned against the wall of the pathology building while Molly scanned the street for a taxi. He was usually the one to take care of everything, the one in charge. He wasn't used to someone looking out for him, someone being concerned about him. It was _nice_. He realised that he was good at using people, but not at needing them. There were few people in his life that he considered to be true friends, but Molly definitely belonged on that list.

After a few minutes, Molly spied a cab and flagged it down. "There you are, Sherlock," she said holding the door as he climbed into the taxi. "Now you go home and get some rest."

"Thank you," he said with real gratitude. "Sorry about keeping you late…saying the wrong thing…everything. I promise I'll make it up to you."

"Nonsense, it's no bother at all. Listen, call me if you need anything. And don't worry; I'll save your slides for you." Molly surprised him once again by leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the forehead before closing the door and watching the cab pull away.

Chapter 2

A few weeks later, Molly arrived home to find a package on her doorstep. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with no return address. Molly picked it up and inspected the handwritten label. She'd recognize that grand "H" and those looping "L's" anywhere. She entered her flat, dropping her tote on the floor and tossing her keys on the stand by the door. She put the kettle on then sat at her table to open her package from Sherlock. She tore through the paper revealing the cover of a book—volume two Rokitansky's _Manual of Pathological Anatomy_. _He found it._ She could only speculate as to what strings he'd had to pull to get it. She turned it over in her hands then opened the cover. A note fluttered out. With trembling fingers, she picked it up off the floor. It was only twelve words, save her name. She read those twelve words, read them again, then a third time trying to make sure she wasn't missing something. That last word in particular. Could there be any other meaning? A smile spread across her face and she clutched the paper tightly to her chest for a moment then read the note, his note to her, one more time.

 _Molly,_

 _Thank you for taking care of me. This completes your set. Coffee?_

 _SH_

She fumbled her mobile out of her pocket and sent a text to Sherlock. One word. He'd know what it meant. She texted "Yes".

END


End file.
